


Demons

by ClassyGirlsWearPearls



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bullying, Depression, Drug Use, Kidlock, M/M, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Self-Harm, Teenlock, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-10
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-18 09:08:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/878097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClassyGirlsWearPearls/pseuds/ClassyGirlsWearPearls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock shares the demons of his past and tells John what happened between him and Sebastian Wilkes, and gives him an insight into his childhood so he can understand it better.</p><p>Potential triggers for bullying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock tells John what happened between him and Sebastian Wilkes. Comes with a significant amount of background story.
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome, as well as praise. Please review.
> 
> I own nothing. My deepest apologies to ACD and Mofftiss.

John Watson hated Sebastian Wilkes with an indescribable passion from the moment he swaggered into his office and touched his boyfriend.

 

It wasn’t that John was the _jealous_ type per say, although he had had his moments in the past. It was the _way_ that Seb had looked at Sherlock as he shook his hand. He regarded him as if he were someone below him, like someone who wasn’t worthy of his attention.

 

Seb looked at Sherlock as if he were something to use.

 

Despite this, when Seb turned to John and asked in a shocked voice, “ _Friend?_ ” John had replied coolly with, “Colleague” because he wasn’t comfortable with the newfound twist on his sexuality  that he had recently discovered (something that Sherlock was surprisingly understanding of) and wasn’t about to come out to this twat before anyone else.

 

It was a knee jerk reaction. John would never forget the hurt look on Sherlock’s face when he said it. In that moment, John felt he was as bad as Sebastian Wilkes. He felt worse when Seb said that everyone hated him while they were there. The way Sherlock’s mouth turned down ever so slightly was barely an indication of how it hurt him, but his eyes. Oh God, John would never forget just how sad his eyes got. It broke his heart, and all John Watson knew in that moment was that he never wanted to see Sherlock’s eyes look like that ever again.

 

It took until the end of the case, the night before they went to Seb to collect their check, for John to get Sherlock into bed with him again and for them to talk about what had happened that day. They were both tired, but not to the point where they were falling asleep quite yet. They were enjoying a cuddle in their pants filled with lazy kisses and soft caresses. They hadn't had sex yet due to John's ongoing adjustment to his newly discovered side to his sexuality and Sherlock's skittishness about sex. He hadn't said it outright, but John was fairly certain Sherlock was still a virgin. It was all fine, though. John was willing to wait as long as Sherlock needed, and Sherlock seemed to feel the same way about John's need to take things slowly.

 

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” John remarked after a few moments, nuzzling into Sherlock’s dark curls and kissing his scalp.

 

“Just sorting the facts of the case,” Sherlock replied, running his hand up and down John’s side.

 

John let out a short hum and was silent again for a few minutes. Finally he spoke.

 

“That day that we met with Seb for the first time-”

 

“Honestly, John, why do you feel the need to relive that?” Sherlock huffed.

 

“I just wanted to apologize.” Sherlock turned his head up, stunned. “I shouldn’t have said I was just your colleague. I should have been comfortable saying you were my friend.”

 

“I understand. You’re still trying to acclimate yourself to being in a sexual relationship with another man and aren’t ready to come out. It’s perfectly alright.”

 

“That’s just the thing. It isn’t alright, Sherlock. I might not be ready for everyone to know yet, but I’m proud to be with you. You should know that. I don’t know what Seb did to you, but I know something happened there. You don’t have to tell me just yet, or ever if you aren’t ready, but when I said that I felt as low as he should have. I was just as bad as he was.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “There’s no way you could be as bad as he was.”

 

John squeezed him tighter. “When he said everyone at school hated you, my heart broke. You deserve so much better than to feel that you aren’t wanted.”

 

“No matter what you may think, that’s how I have spent my whole life until I met you.”

 

John grimaced. “I’m sorry I said that.”

 

“Thank you. It did hurt.” Sherlock admitted. “I do understand why you said it. I doubt you thought before you said it.”

 

“I didn’t. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hurtful. If I say something insensitive in the future, please tell me.”

 

Sherlock nodded into John’s chest. After a few minutes had passed, he asked, “Would you like to hear about Seb?”

 

“Only if you want to tell me about it,” John lied. He was _itching_ to know.

 

“Please, John, I can practically feel you vibrating with the need to know. It’s only fair, seeing how your life is a fairly open book to me, even though I try to let you have some secrets from me.”

 

“Oh, you do?”

 

“Yes. It’s difficult, and sometimes I can’t help but see it, but I do try.”

 

John was stunned. “In that case, I would like to hear about him.”

 

Sherlock sat up against the headboard next to John, with their shoulders touching.

 

“To understand Seb,” he began. “I shall have to tell you a few things about my life before uni…”

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, when Sherlock was very young, he wondered if he had done something wrong to deserve the life he had. Not his situation, of course. He knew from a very young age that he was incredibly privileged and most children grew up having a mere fraction of what he had. He wondered because of his brain.

 

He had always known that he was different. It wasn’t anything anyone in the house had ever tried to hide. Mycroft was the only one who was remotely understanding about the issue, but he did what he could to shake him off because he didn’t want his pity and he was always away at school. What was the use of a protector if they were only home for three months of the year?

 

He exhausted his parents. On the rare occasion they would eat together, his father would request in that abominable monotone of his that Sherlock didn’t speak of such trivial matters such as chemistry and the dissection of a chicken fetus from an egg he’d snuck from a neighboring farm’s incubator. Mummy would tilt back in her chair and cover her eyes and forehead delicately with her gorgeously manicured hands and would declare that he wore her out. She bemoaned about how much of a handful he was compared to his brother.

 

Sherlock quickly learned not to speak, because if he spoke, he was criticized.

 

The house staff feared him. They all agreed that Mycroft was a bit strange, but he was docile and had such a good heart that it balanced out. Sherlock, however, didn’t have a docile bone in his body. The cook would never forget the day that she went into the kitchen at four in the morning to start preparing food for the day and she found Sherlock standing on a stool dissecting a frog he had caught and killed in the pond on the family estate on her granite countertop. He had been up all night cutting into it and writing observations in a notebook.

 

He was three.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock spent most of his early childhood years seeing specialists. His parents wanted to know what was wrong with him. Mycroft usually tried to point out that it wasn’t what was _wrong_ with Sherlock, but what was _different_ about him. It was also Mycroft who challenged Sherlock’s diagnosis as a sociopath and said he just believed that Sherlock was different. He believed his brother was a genius. He searched for other specialists for Sherlock to see at the tender age of 11 and scheduled appointments without his parent’s knowledge. When the diagnosis was corrected on paper and Sherlock was seen as a genius with social anxiety rather than a freak, Sherlock continued to refer to himself as a sociopath because he felt that it would make people pity him less, and hopefully they would be more likely to leave him alone.

 

At school, Sherlock was a pariah. He was silent yet overconfident, and he wasn’t interested in anything that the other boys at school were. Sherlock wanted to be in a lab cutting into things or causing explosions. Everyone else was busy playing rugby and trying to prove how overly masculine they were at the tender age of eight. Most of his schoolmates left him alone, but the first time he was publicly ridiculed was because of this aversion to rugby.

 

A wispy boy called Percival Hewitt (a name that _Sherlock_ found unfortunate) was bragging in the common area about how massive his muscles were becoming from the extensive amount of time he spent as the dominant force on an intermural rugby squad. Sherlock, who was only there because the time in common area was mandatory, snorted into his book when Percival flexed his barely existent biceps at them.

 

“What’s so amusing, Holmes?” Percival sneered.

 

“Merely your ridiculous belief that you’re the most masculine of a group of adolescents who haven’t reached puberty yet,” Sherlock replied, never taking his eyes off of his book.

 

“What would you know about that, seeing how you don’t even play rugby?”

 

Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes. “It doesn’t make a difference whether I find it necessary to run around a field getting covered in mud and sweat when we’re all going to be equally masculine in about twenty years.”

 

Percival let out a cruel cackle. “You are the biggest pansy I’ve ever met! I can’t believe we all have to go to school with you, you fag.”

 

Sherlock cringed at the slur. Mycroft had recently told him that he was gay, and hearing people throw around that term was one of the few things that made him feel a strong emotion.

 

Of course, the other boys noticed the cringe, and they hopped on the name-calling bandwagon. They taunted Sherlock while he tried to continue to read his book. Eventually, the noise got to be too much, and Sherlock snapped his book shut and stalked out. He could hear more taunts being thrown at him, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get away from them.

 

Once in the privacy of his room, Sherlock curled up into the fetal position on his bed and trembled. He knew that he didn’t have any friends at school. Nobody tried to hide that from him, and without the direct bullying he had been able to ignore it. This was new. He didn’t have data on this. He analyzed the new feelings, and then pushed them into the darkest corner of his mind palace. The memories were there so he would never be caught off guard by these feelings again, but they were far enough out of reach that he wouldn’t have to face them every day.

 

Once he had catalogued everything, Sherlock put on his pajamas and curled under his covers. He reached under his bed for his hidden teddy bear and snuggled up to it. He let himself cry silently. As he drifted off, Sherlock’s thoughts drifted to the next day and the hope that it would be much better.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock dreamed of their words. There were no voices or faces, just the letters clouding his mind’s eye.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, he reluctantly dragged himself to breakfast. He had considered staying in his room for the rest of the day, but that was what a coward would do. He wanted to go out and face the bullies with his head held high.

 

He sat at his usual table, alone as always. Normally he was left alone to do what he pleased, but that day it seemed like everyone wanted his attention so they could say another nasty to them. They threw names at him, which he didn’t react to. He continued filing them away in his Mind Palace in that dark corner so they wouldn’t bother him as much, but he still cried himself to sleep every night, because suddenly he believed what the therapists said to him. He was alone and friendless, and would always be that way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its that time of week again, duckies!

John gripped Sherlock’s hand and tears were beginning to form in his eyes. “Oh Sherlock,” he said thickly. “Sherlock, how could they do that to you? How could they not recognize how special you are?”

 

“Children are cruel, John,” Sherlock shrugged.

 

“That’s beyond cruel,” John replied, shaking his head. “That breaks my heart.”

 

“I can stop if this is upsetting you. I can assure you the story only gets worse.”

 

“No,” John quickly ejaculated. “No, I want to hear it. I mean, unless you want to stop.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll continue.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was able to deal with the bullying for four months and sixteen days. He broke two days before summer break. He had finished packing and was waiting for his parents to come and fetch him on the last day that they could possibly get there. They were off on some safari (boring) in an African country (deleted) and were only coming back to fetch him because parents weren’t allowed to send governesses or chauffeurs to retrieve children at the end of the year. They found this wildly inconvenient, and had told the school just that. They even tried to hurl gobs of money at the institution so they wouldn’t have to fly home and then fly back to complete the last two months of their three month vacation.

 

Percival Hewitt’s parents were also late in picking him up, but they were late because his mother had given birth to another younger brother for the brute to bully the day that he was supposed to be picked up. Naturally, Percival was moaning and groaning about how inconvenient this was to him. He had his sights on one of the neighbor girls (by “neighbor”, he meant that she lived three estates over from him, which meant she lived about two miles away) who had already gotten home, and he knew the boy who lived next to him in the opposite direction of said girl had his sights on her as well. Always keen to compete and to prove his masculinity, Percival was determined to get to this girl before this other boy had the chance to.

 

Naturally, Sherlock found this ridiculous. They had recently turned nine, and there was no way that Percival was going to get his hands on this girl. For starters, she was thirteen, and the other boy was fourteen. He had also gotten home a week earlier and they were probably already shagging. Sherlock hated that he knew this, but Percival had been bragging about it so loudly in the dining hall that there was no way that Sherlock couldn’t have listened.

 

Now, with two days left, Sherlock was sitting along at his usual table, and Percival no longer had anyone to brag to. So, for the first time all school year, Sherlock was startled out of his reverie caused by reading his book on famous serial killers by a tray sliding opposite him. When he looked up, he found Percival plopping himself into the seat, looking arrogant and pleased with himself as usual, but also slightly disgusted that he was sitting across from Sherlock of all people.

 

“What is so interesting about those books you’re always reading that keeps you from talking to others?” Percival asked.

 

Without taking his eyes off of the pages, Sherlock responded, “They’re much more interesting than the moronic drabble that everyone here spews all the time.”

 

Percival was too stupid to realize he was being insulted, or perhaps he was just ignoring everything Sherlock was saying, and responded by saying, “I spoke with Jeanette earlier. She seems quite keen to hop into my bed and spend the summer shagging. I told her that as soon as I get out of here I’ll be driving over to hers.”

 

“You are nine years old. What gives you the impression you can drive?” Sherlock muttered to his book.

 

“My father purchased a golf cart for me last year so I could get around the property easily. Ours is rather expansive and it can take a few hours to walk somewhere that I want to go to.”

 

Sherlock hummed disinterestedly.

 

“Of course, I doubt you know anything about girls, what with that not being your cup of tea. Tell me, is it paradise for a fag being at an all-boys boarding school?”

 

Sherlock looked up. “I take offense to you using that word.”

 

“So you don’t deny it.”

 

“I am neither confirming nor denying it. I feel that pursuing a sexual relationship is pointless and time consuming, and have no desire for anything of that sort.”

 

Percival looked like he was trying to decipher just what Sherlock had said (he looked faintly like an ape, Sherlock noted), and after about 30 seconds of silence, he asked, “So do you wank to all of us here? I bet you do. I bet you’re gagging for it, being surrounded by so many guys.”

 

“Contrary to popular belief, just because I find sport moronic does not mean that I am homosexual. I understand that is difficult for you to compartmentalize in your miniscule brain, but it is true.”

 

“Are you using confusing words just to try to convince me that you aren’t a fag, or to tell me you are in some really roundabout way?”

 

Sherlock looked up from his book and sighed deeply. “If you want it that plainly, I’ll give it to you because your idiotic brain cannot process it. I am not gay, nor do I have a problem with people who are gay. I do have a problem with homophobes like you. Now if you don’t mind, I don’t have time for tedious conversations with individuals I hate. I would like to finish this chapter before I finish eating and they close the dining hall.”

 

Percival’s face screwed up. “Fuck you,” he seethed, and leapt across the table, knocking Sherlock to the ground forcefully.

 

Sherlock’s head hit the hardwood floor harder than it should have, and he saw stars. Before he could reorient himself and assess the damage to his skull, Percival started punching him in his chest and on his face. He tried unsuccessfully to block himself from the blows. Sherlock could feel the blood dripping from his nose. He could feel each blow constricting his lungs and squeezing his heart. He could feel his head pounding from the fall. He could feel-

 

A teacher who had heard his cries from the hall and rushed in pulled Percival off of Sherlock, restraining his and preventing him from going back to cause more damage. The teacher called for help from his colleagues in the hall. Two more teachers rushed in. One immediately left to fetch the nurse and the headmaster, and the other one, the kind chemistry instructor named Miss Trevor who had always let Sherlock experiment as he pleased as long as she was there to supervise him, knelt next to him.

 

He turned his large, verdigris eyes up at her and, to his horror, felt them well up with tears. She stroked his curls and whispered to him as the tears spilled over and he reveled in the only physical affection he had ever received.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s parents were notified of the incident.

 

They did not come home early.

 

They did not request to have Percival Hewitt thrown out of school, although he was expelled because of bullying and for assaulting Sherlock.

 

Sherlock’s nose was broken, and he had two broken ribs. His parents pressed no charges against the school or Percival. Mycroft shouted at them when he found out, but they were too distracted by the thought of returning to their sojourn from their children.

 

In the end, it was Mycroft who nursed Sherlock’s injuries, who hugged him when he cried, who let him sleep in his bed because of the nightmares he was having. It was always Mycroft in his corner, and part of Sherlock despised him for that. Nonetheless, he still curled up with his big brother at the end of the day and let him comfort him.

 

* * *

 

“Hang on,” John interjected. “You hate Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Mycroft’s position is much more complicated than he makes it out to be, which I doubt surprises you. He and I pretend to despise each other so nobody uses me as leverage against him. Despite what you see, Mycroft and I care deeply for each other. He maintains no close relationships because of the danger to those who become close to him. It is why he and Lestrade live in neighboring flats in the same building. They knocked the neighboring wall out so they could create their little love nest after they signed the papers for a civil partnership, but to an outside observer, they just look like two men who are neighbors.”

 

John looked dumbfounded.

 

“Oh, that’s right. Lestrade and Mycroft are partners.”

 

“Greg has a wife…” John breathed.

 

“He _had_ a wife,” Sherlock corrected. “They’ve been divorced for some time now, but he still wore his ring up until they got divorced to protect himself from whoever is threatening Mycroft on any given day. As I’ve learned with you, the heart wants what the heart wants, despite the inconvenience of it all.”

 

John grinned. “That’s probably the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.” He kissed Sherlock’s cheek and then the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry for interrupting. Please, continue your story.”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s fine. It may interest you to know, though, that Percival Hewitt, for all of his talk of masculinity, is a doctor who still plays rugby on the weekends, and has been in a committed relationship with a man named Arthur for ten years now. They live in Edinburg and have two children, and their surrogate is carrying twins for them right now.”

 

John’s jaw dropped. “What a bastard.”

 

“Yes, quite,” Sherlock sighed. “He did call me about four years ago while he was in London for a conference. I thought he may have a case, and it was just after I’d gotten clean and Mycroft was controlling my inheritance so I couldn’t spend it all on cocaine and relapse, so I was a bit short on cash. He and I met in a coffee shop, where he told me that he’d just had his daughter. He apologized for the way he treated me, and admitted that he had been struggling with the way he was feeling towards all of the boys in school and didn’t want to be caught out.”

 

“That doesn’t make it okay,” John pointed out.

 

“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock agreed. “He was so repentant, though. He even said that his apology was years too late and that it didn’t make things okay, but he still felt that he should say it because it had been eating him up for years, and he hadn’t had the courage to say it until then. Believe it or not, it did make me feel a bit better. Not much, but it was the first and only time someone had apologized for making me feel the way I felt, and I didn’t know how much I needed it.”

 

John snuggled more into Sherlock’s side and wrapped his arms around his waist. “I’m glad.” He paused for a moment, and then said, “You said there was a teacher. One who saw you for you. The one who stayed on the floor with you after you were beaten up.”

 

“Yes, Victoria Trevor,” Sherlock said.

 

“Was she there throughout your education?”

 

Sherlock looked down at John, who was curled up into his chest and was looking up at him with those wide, doe eyes that he pulled out only very rarely.

 

“Why do you want to know?”

 

“I,” John began, gulped, and snuggled impossibly further into Sherlock. “I want to know if there was someone there for you. Someone in your corner. Someone who was always present during school.”

 

“Mycroft-” Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

 

“Mycroft wasn’t even there anymore when that happened, Sherlock. I want to know whether or not there was someone there who always knew just how beautiful your brain was. Don’t sugarcoat it for me,” he added sternly. “If there was no one, I want to know. Don’t tell me there was someone if there wasn’t, because I think you lying to me would break my heart more than if there was no one at all.”

 

“She was there for the majority of my time at school,” Sherlock replied. “She continued to let me experiment and to encourage me to hone my deductive skills as well as my scientific knowledge. It wasn’t long before she didn’t have anything left to teach me, so she recommended books to me that would keep my mind from becoming stagnant. She didn’t even mind that I knew more than she did. In fact, she asked me to talk to her about some of the things I learned so she could better understand what I was doing.” Sherlock paused, clearly mulling over what he was about to say. “In my life, there have been five people who have accepted unconditionally me for who I am. Mycroft was the first, and she was the second.”

 

“The other three?” John asked, knowing the answer already.

 

Sherlock sighed indulgently. “John, I know you aren’t that thick. There are only three other people in my life who I care about. The third was Lestrade. The fourth was Mrs. Hudson. The fifth is the extraordinarily ordinary man who is currently wrapped around me.”

 

John blushed and heaved himself up to kiss Sherlock tenderly. “You sure know how to make a guy feel like the center of the universe.”

 

Sherlock frowned. “Not the solar system, John. Now  you’re just ruining the moment.”

 

“I’m sorry,” John sighed, placing a peck on the tip of Sherlock’s nose as a peace offering. “Tell me some more about Miss Trevor.”

 

“There isn’t much more to tell,” Sherlock admitted. “She let me use my brain to nearly its full potential, which I was very grateful for.”

 

“You said she wasn’t there the whole time. Why did she leave?”

 

Sherlock paused, and a dark look flashed across his face. “I’m nearly at that point. Be patient.”

 

“Fair enough,” John conceded, shimmying back down and tightening his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “I’m sorry I interrupted. Want to go on, or save the rest for another time?”

 

“Let’s keep going. I don’t know when I’ll feel this open about myself again.”

 

* * *

 

With Percival gone, there was no real force driving the bullies at school. Sherlock was still called names and taunted, but the group effort to make his life miserable wasn’t there anymore. There were always bullies, and some were nastier than others, but eventually they lost interest in him because he never responded to them. All of the boys were amazed by the way he managed to shut them out and the way he never reacted to their hate.

 

Mycroft worried about him constantly. After he had gone to university, he called as often as he could to make sure that Sherlock was alright. He even went so far as to install a phone in Sherlock’s room so he didn’t have to use the public phone every night.

 

Sherlock looked forward to the calls with his brother, but he tried to seem nonchalant about it. Mycroft knew that he was studying in his room during all of his free time, but he didn’t make any remarks about how quickly Sherlock always picked up when his phone rang. Sherlock was grateful for that.

 

As the years went on, Sherlock hardened. He barely spoke anymore. He did more destructive experiments. He began cutting himself so he could experience feelings through physical pain rather than emotional pain. He hid it rather well. Not even Mycroft noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The short interlude with Miss Trevor will be coming next week. We're nearly to Seb. I promise.
> 
> As always, reviews, kudos, constructive criticism, as well as general love and adoration are always appreciated. I love you all very much! xoxoxo


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Wednesday again, darlings! Here's a long one for you all. Angst ahead.

“The cutting is something that still upsets Mycroft to this day,” Sherlock sighed. “He couldn’t have known that I was doing it, though.” Sherlock paused and swallowed thickly. “I have only seen my brother cry three times in my life. He did so when he and Lestrade had their small ceremony, when I overdosed, and when he discovered what I had been doing with an exacto knife for so many years.”

 

John leaned over and kissed the scar on the side of Sherlock’s ribcage that he had always assumed was from some sort of fight or chasing a criminal. “How did he find out?”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was being bullied again. Not just bullied. He was being tormented. This time, it was threats of physical violence that were being hurled at him. He had deleted the names of the boys who were doing this to him, but he saved what they said they would do to him in case they followed through.

 

He had deduced that one of the boys in his year was sleeping with their chemistry instructor, the one who always saw Sherlock for his gifts rather for his faults. He had mentioned this at one point while the two of them were the only people in the room. He was surprised that the boy proceeded to lift him up by his collar and slam him against the wall.

 

“If you ever tell _anyone_ what you just said to me I’ll kick your brains out, Holmes. I swear to fucking God I will kill you,” he growled, getting right up in Sherlock’s face. His forearm was pressed against Sherlock’s throat and he was having trouble breathing. “Do you understand?”

 

Sherlock nodded, unable to sputter out a response.

 

“I swear I am going to find something about you that I can use to make sure you don’t tell anyone about this. You’d better watch your fucking back, Holmes,  or you’ll be sorry.”

 

The boy released him, and Sherlock choked as oxygen refilled his lungs. He stumbled over to the table and grabbed his things and stumbled back to his room. Once Sherlock had locked the door, he dropped everything he was carrying and sank down against the door, gasping in air and gripping his head in his hands, trying to quell the violent shaking he was experiencing.

 

It was the first time since Percival Hewitt that he had been physically threatened, and it affected him much more than he had thought it would. After curling up on the floor for several minutes trying to calm himself, Sherlock decided that his newfound stress reliever was the only way he would be able to deal with what he was feeling.

 

He had an exacto knife secreted away in his sock drawer, although part of him knew that he really didn’t need to hide it seeing as he lived alone. He had discovered how good it felt to slice into his skin one day about two years earlier by accident, when he was using a scalpel to dissect a cow’s eye. Miss Trevor had quickly patched him up and sent him off to the infirmary for the proper tests to make sure he hadn’t contracted some disease from this little slip.

 

As Sherlock was being poked and prodded afterwards, he couldn’t help but think about how _good_ it felt when he had made that slice. Sherlock felt slightly sick as he realized he had enjoyed the rush of endorphins coursing through him as his body tried to ward off the pain.

 

It took him another week to want to feel that again. The same boy had just finished one of his escapades with their chemistry instructor, and once again he and Sherlock were alone in the same room again. Sherlock found the signs all over him terribly distracting.

 

“Would you please at least have the decency to shower after you do that?” Sherlock groaned.

 

The boy turned a murderous glare towards Sherlock. “I thought I told you to ignore it, Holmes.”

 

“I’m trying, but the fact that you just came from one of your trysts doesn’t make it easy for me. I can’t just turn it on and off,” Sherlock sighed.

 

The boy reached over and punched Sherlock in the cheek. Sherlock yelped. “Say anything about this again and you’ll get much worse than that.”

 

Cupping his cheek, Sherlock dashed from the room and into his room once again. He lunged towards his sock drawer and unearthed the exacto knife he had stolen from an art room and sterilized. Shaking and gasping, he raised the knife, staring directly at it like an opponent in a match. Breathing heavily, he removed his shirt and lifted the knife to his ribcage. Inconspicuous, and if he ever winced he could attribute it to something else fairly easily.

 

After a few seconds of hesitation, Sherlock sliced.

 

He gasped, shocked at the sensation of his skin cells ripping apart and then the subsequent flow of blood down his side. Sherlock lolled his head back and God he _felt._

He reached into his desk for the first aid kit Mycroft made him keep there just in case. He carefully cleaned himself up and bandaged the cut. Once he had put his shirt back on, Sherlock looked in the mirror and grinned. There was no way anyone would be able to tell.

 

* * *

  

It was months before the boy did something to Sherlock again.

 

Sherlock had discovered the affair in January. The next September, he noticed something funny about Miss Trevor that was barely noticeable to everyone else.

 

“You’re pregnant,” he stated after class one day, blunt as ever.

 

She had been erasing the board. She stiffened, set the eraser down, and turned to face Sherlock.

 

“Yes,” she stated coolly.

 

“Does he know?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Does who know?” Miss Trevor countered, playing ignorant.

 

“I deleted his name. The ginger one who is about a head taller than you.”

 

Miss Trevor blanched. “This is none of his business, Mr. Holmes, nor is it any of yours.”

 

“What are you going to tell him when you start to actually show?” Sherlock prattled on, ignoring her. “He is obviously in love with you, and I gather you are in love with him. It would break him to tell him that the child was the product of a summer fling, though you’re too far along for that to be believable. You could still abort it and nobody would know, but not consulting him in such an important decision regarding your lives could be detrimental to your future together.”

 

“Mr. Holmes-”

 

“Perhaps he is so in love with you that he wants to have an actual future with you. You’re young. There is a fourteen or so year age difference between the two of you, but you’re barely in your thirties, so there is still some hope for him-”

 

Sherlock was cut off by a stinging on his cheek, and saw Miss Trevor withdrawing her hand. She looked shocked at what she had just done.

 

“I-” she stammered, her eyes welling up. “I can’t believe I just did that. I’m so, so sorry.”

 

“You’re disgusted with yourself for striking a student, but you apparently have no qualms about seducing one and then neglecting to tell him that you’re carrying his child. People say that my morals are warped, but I don’t think that even mine are that twisted.”

 

Miss Trevor sank into her chair and began to sob. Sherlock stood stiffly to the side of her desk. “If this is some ploy for my pity…”

 

“I don’t need your pity,” she spat. “I need to figure out what I’m going to do. I don’t want to get rid of it. I’ve wanted to be a mother for so long, and now I’m becoming one with the man that I love.”

 

“The _boy_ that you love,” Sherlock corrected.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” she cried. “I love him, he loves me, and I want to spend the rest of my life with him.”

 

“You can spend the rest of your life together after you go to jail for having sex with a minor,” Sherlock pointed out. “That can’t be worth it.”

 

“What would you know about that, you heartless freak!” Miss Trevor seethed. She froze. Sherlock froze. “I- I didn’t mean-”

 

Sherlock’s posture went impossibly ramrod straight, and he could feel barriers dropping down. Miss Trevor could see them dropping and whispered, “Sherlock. Sherlock I didn’t mean it.”

 

Sherlock turned briskly and walked out of the classroom straight to his room.

 

He paced, he pulled at his hair, and he scratched at his forearms. He hyperventilated until he couldn’t ignore it anymore and had to lie down in the middle of the room.

 

_Freak._

 

So that’s how he was classified. That’s what he was.

 

_Freak_

_Freak_

_Freak_

The word danced around his brain, flooding his Mind Palace.

 

_Freak_

Tears streamed down his face and he sobbed until he hyperventilated again, despite the fact that he was lying flat on the ground.

 

_Freak_

_Freak_

He wanted Mycroft

 

_Freak_

Why wasn’t his big brother here

 

_Freak_

Where was his knife

 

_Freak_

Someone was banging on his door

 

_Freakfreakfreakfreakfreak_

Somehow his shirt was off and his knife was in his shaking hand how did it get that way

 

_Freakfreakfreak_

The banging continued

 

_Freak_

The metal felt divine as it sliced into him

 

_FREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAKFREAK_

**_BANG_ **

****

The tall ginger one stood over him looking murderous.

 

“I will **_fucking_** kill you!”

 

Sherlock dropped the knife and curled in on himself.

 

“I told you to keep that a fucking secret or I would kick your brains out, Holmes!”

 

Sherlock was shaking, and he could hear himself begging, although he couldn’t feel any of the words leaving his mouth.

 

“Please,” he sobbed. “I didn’t mean-”

 

The tall ginger one leaped on him and began punching him as hard as he could. Sherlock was reminded of Percival Hewitt wailing on him, but this time it was much more destructive. He could feel the full force of a nearly grown man slamming into his body. He could feel his bones struggling to stay intact as his body was slammed on the ground and twisted to positions he didn’t think even the most experienced yoga masters could comfortably contort themselves into. That was Sherlock’s final thought before a particularly violent blow to the head knocked him unconscious and his world went black.

 

* * *

 

 

John was straddling Sherlock. He cupped his face in his hands and kissed him everywhere he could, somehow missing his lips every time.

 

“John-” he sighed breathlessly.

 

John pulled back, sadly scanning Sherlock’s face. “I am so mad for you, Sherlock Holmes. I don’t want you to ever think otherwise. Don’t ever let what other people have done to you make you doubt what you mean to me. Do you understand?”

 

“John.”

 

“ _Do you understand?_ ” John growled ferociously.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Always, John.”

 

John embraced Sherlock, squeezing him tightly and kissing a spot just behind his ear.

 

“I’m not moving for a while,” he mumbled. “What happened to Miss Trevor?”

 

“She kept the baby,” Sherlock sighed. “Despite her questionable choice in her sexual partners, she would have made an excellent mother. The boy who impregnated her was nearly done with school at that point, so he took care of the baby with the help of his parents. He went to school and is now a maths teacher at a public school in Yorkshire. Miss Trevor when to prison for having sex with a minor who was one of her students. Once these two were found out, three other boys came forward and said that they had had relationships with her while they were still underage and were her students. She was in prison for two years, and as soon as she was released, she married the tall ginger one and changed her last name to MacPherson, which apparently was his last name. She can’t get a job as a teacher or any respectable job anymore, but she owns a lovely little tea shop where she doesn’t have to worry about employers asking about her felonious past. She and the tall ginger one now have five other children to keep them busy, and from what I’ve heard from Mycroft, they are just as happy as they could possibly be.”

 

“Funny how those who do terrible things frequently end up getting the better lot in life,” John sighed, still clinging to Sherlock.

 

“Quite,” Sherlock said quietly, rubbing his hands gently up and down John’s bare back. “I don’t care if you move, but I’m going to continue now.”

 

John nodded into his boyfriend’s neck. “Fine with me.”

 

* * *

  

Sherlock woke without opening his eyes. He was in a hospital bed, based on the noises around him, and what he could recall of the last memory, a hospital was the only place that it made sense for him to be.

 

Someone was holding his left hand. He could feel two warm, bony hands surrounding his, and a weight on top of them made him think that someone had their forehead resting on them, as if they were praying, or just exhausted from waiting for him to wake. It could only be one person.

 

“Mycroft,” he rasped, his eyes still closed. If it wasn’t his brother, he didn’t want to open his eyes and face whoever it was.

 

“Oh, thank God,” Mycroft breathed.

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and there was his brother, looking exhausted and worried and newly relieved all at once. Mycroft removed one hand from Sherlock’s and reached over to the table next to Sherlock’s bed, grabbing a cup of water and a straw.

 

“Drink this,” he commanded, holding the cup to Sherlock’s lips. “You sound like you’ve been walking through the desert for a week without water.”

 

“Nobody could survive that long without water, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighed, doing his best to roll his eyes.

 

“Just drink it, Sherlock.” Mycroft thrust the cup at him again.

 

Sherlock spent what felt like hours sipping miniscule sips of water until the cup was drained and he fell back against the pillows, exhausted.

 

“Do you need some more?” Mycroft asked.

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“How long had he been bothering you?” Mycroft asked quietly.

 

“Since January. That’s when I noticed it,” Sherlock sighed heavily. “I tried to ignore it because he told me he would kill me if I told anyone, but once she got pregnant I couldn’t turn it off anymore.”

 

Mycroft nodded sternly. “How long have you been cutting yourself.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, and then froze.

 

“Sherlock, please.” To Sherlock’s horror, Mycroft’s voice broke. “Please, I need to know how long this has been going on.”

 

“Nearly three years,” Sherlock whispered.

 

Mycroft’s eyes, to Sherlock’s continuing horror, filled with tears. “Oh brother,” he sighed, fluttering his eyes closed and letting tears spill out from under his closed lashes.

 

“Mycroft,” Sherlock gulped, reaching for his brother and pulling him into an embrace. Mycroft cried onto his shoulder, and Sherlock gripped him as tightly as he could in his weakened, medicated state.

 

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” he choked into Sherlock’s neck, shuddering and sobbing. “I should have protected you better. I knew that you were unhappy, but I didn’t think it was that bad. I’ll never forgive myself for this.”

 

Sherlock used his limited strength to maneuver Mycroft onto the bed, and suddenly he was flashing back to when he was younger after he was first hurt at school, when he would climb into Mycroft’s bed and Mycroft would curl around him protectively. It was exactly like that again, except this time their roles were reversed, and Sherlock was playing the comforter.

 

“I only felt the need to do it at school,” Sherlock admitted. “I’ve never done it on any of my breaks where I’m staying with you.”

 

“The fact that you need to do it at all-” Mycroft choked.

 

“Mycroft look at me,” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft reluctantly raised his head. His eyes were red and his mouth was turned down. “I feel better when I have you around. Could I change schools and stay with you until I go to uni? I know I’ll get bullied there, but I’ll feel better if I’m with you. At least that way you’ll be able to tell when I’m lying if I say I’m okay.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “Of course you may, Sherlock. I’ll research a few nearby schools that would be more open to having a brain like yours amongst their pupils. I’ll also send a few people to pack up what you have right now and move it to my townhome.”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock sighed.

 

After a few moments of silence save Mycroft’s quieting sobs, Mycroft said, “Your new school. It won’t be as… prestigious as you’re used to. We’re going to have to find something that’s a bit more accommodating for you.”

 

“I don’t care, though I’m sure Mummy and Father will,” Sherlock replied. “Speaking of them, do they know I’m here?”

 

“They know, but they told me to tell you to be more careful for the rest of your time in school. I don’t think they truly grasped the severity of the situation.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “When have they ever grasped anything that concerned us?”

 

“Quite right,” Mycroft sniffed, wrapping his arms tighter around his brother. “We have to stay together, Sherlock. You must swear to me that you will tell me when something is wrong because we don’t have anyone else. If I lost  you-” Mycroft broke off again.

 

“I promise only if you do, Mycroft. That’s only fair.”

 

Mycroft nodded. “You have my word, little brother.”

 

“Then you have mine,” Sherlock replied drowsily. He yawned and snuggled closer to his brother, and the two of them drifted off together.

 

* * *

 

 

The year between when Sherlock discovered his teacher was pregnant and when he went to university passed fairly uneventfully with Sherlock in his new school. He didn’t make friends, but he was tolerated, which was something that he had no experience with. He studied the feeling and decided that he would be content to feel tolerated for the rest of his life.

 

* * *

  

“I will more than tolerate you, Sherlock,” John sniffed into his neck. Sherlock could feel tears leaking out of John’s eyes onto his shoulder. “I will make you feel wanted and special every second of every day as long as I live. I don’t care if you burn the fucking building down or commit an international crime so great even Mycroft can’t get you out of it. I will always be here to make you feel just as wonderful as you deserve to feel.”

 

They hadn’t said those key three words yet, and John could feel them lodged in his throat. He didn’t want to say them just then because he didn’t want Sherlock to think that he was saying it out of pity. They hadn’t been together that long either, and although  John knew from the beginning that this was the person he was supposed to spend the rest of his life with, he didn’t want to say it too early and risk scaring Sherlock off or to force him into saying it earlier than he was comfortable. John just let the implication of the words hang in the air, hoping that Sherlock knew what he meant.

 

Sherlock did know, and he felt the same way that John did. He had never told anyone that he loved them, and it was something he wasn’t sure he was ready to say yet. It wasn’t that he doubted his feelings for John. He had loved him since the second he laid eyes on him even if he wasn’t sure what that feeling was at the beginning. He read between the lines of what John said and gave a small smile.

 

“I hope you know that I will do the same for you, John,” he whispered huskily. John nodded emphatically into his shoulder.

 

It took Sherlock several minutes to continue. He rocked John very slightly to stop him from crying and let him settle down. When he was sure that his boyfriend was ready for him to continue into the more difficult part of the tale, he began speaking again.

 

* * *

  

Mycroft and Sherlock stood facing each other in the middle of the cramped room.

 

“They put all of your things in the wrong spot,” Mycroft remarked.

 

Sherlock snorted. “You can’t expect things to be done right when morons are the ones doing the job.”

 

“How do you feel?” Mycroft asked, leaning on his umbrella.

 

“I’m _fine_ Mycroft,” Sherlock pouted.

 

Mycroft chuckled.

 

“Really, I am,” Sherlock sighed, annoyed with his brother. He paused, and then said softly, “I will miss you, though.”

 

Mycroft reached out and embraced his brother. “You’re going to do so well, Sherlock. Don’t listen to the negative things that all of the ordinary people say. You’re too brilliant for that.”

 

Sherlock squeezed him. “Go before I start showing some form of emotion.” Mycroft laughed, and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

 

“I’ll call often, and I’ll see you for your break. Let me know if you need to come home earlier than that, and I’ll send a car for you.” Mycroft turned and opened the door. As the stood in the threshold, he said, “Goodbye, Sherlock” softly without turning around, and closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! What a behemoth. I've been toying with the chapter divisions and adding some stuff to the later chapters, so the number of chapters is definitely subject to change (although I doubt I'll be able to fit this in less than 8 now). I just couldn't find a good breaking point with all of this stuff.  
> As always, reviews are much appreciated. I hope y'all are enjoying this, and like I said, I a constantly editing and changing the later chapters, so if there is anything you would like to see, let me know and I'll see if it would be possible for me to work something like that in. xoxo


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter one Sebastian Wilkes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday, my loves!

 

It was three hours before Sherlock Holmes met Sebastian Wilkes.

 

Their rooms were next door to each other. In some ways, Seb wasn’t that different from Sherlock. He was an arrogant, entitled rich boy.  Seb, however, had been fortunate enough (or unfortunate enough, if you asked him) to have parents who loved him to pieces, and rather than being cold and withdrawn like Sherlock, he was a presence in any room he entered.

 

They hated each other from the first.

 

After Mycroft left Sherlock, he began rearranging things the way he wanted them. Mycroft, the git, had hired movers who had organized Sherlock’s things the _wrong way_ , and he was tossing things around and muttering about how incompetent the rest of the world was. Why would anyone even think to put _Gray’s Anatomy_ next to _The Odyssey_?

 

Sherlock knew he was being loud, but everyone outside his room was being loud as well, chattering and lugging heavy objects around. He didn’t think much of it until someone knocked on his door. Pausing briefly, he went over and opened the door to find one of the most smug, overconfident human beings that he had ever laid eyes on. This was saying quite a bit, seeing how Sherlock could come off as incredibly smug sometimes, and he had spent most of his education in prestigious boarding schools.

 

“Hello, chap!” The smug bastard in his doorway smiled broadly and falsely at him, displaying his oversized, horsey teeth.

 

Sherlock scrunched his nose. “Who says ‘chap’ anymore?”

 

The boy (man? twat?) standing in his doorway shrugged. “My father does, and I figured if I tried to emulate him for an hour or two while I’m here, I could tell him that I was following his path without having to bloody lie about it.” He stuck out his hand. “Sebastian Wilkes. Seb if you prefer.”

 

Sherlock stared at the hand. “Sherlock Holmes. If you don’t mind, I’m rather busy organizing my things.”

 

Seb lowered his hand. “Ah, well that’s just what I was coming to talk to you about,” Seb smiled, bouncing casually on the balls of his feet. “Thing is, I have a rather pretty girl I just met in my room and she’s a bit skittish about being separated from Mummy and Daddy and needs a bit of comforting. If you know what I mean,” he added, gently elbowing Sherlock in the ribs. “Anyway, the noise is getting just a tad distracting. Do you think you could go about organizing your things in a quieter manner?”

 

“Are you talking about the girl who lives in the room below mine?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I believe I am,” Seb responded, his eyes narrowing a bit. “You, ah, haven’t got your eye on her, have you, my boy?”

 

“Amorous relationships bear no significance in my life. I find them tedious. I did, however, hear some particularly animalistic sounds coming from the room below mine less than an hour ago, and I could smell the scent she used to cover the proof of her earlier activities as she passed outside of my room. Rather heavy on the lavender, don’t you think? As for the other party, based on the voices of the people who have passed down this part of the hall, I would say her previous bed partner from today was the boy in 513.”

 

Seb’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know all of that? Have you been spying on all of us?”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Please. I don’t need to spy. I _observe_ and make deductions based on that.”

 

“What a useful trick!” Seb breathed, awed by the raw power of what Sherlock had just told him.

 

“It isn’t a _trick_ , that’s just how I see the world. Now, if you’re finished here, I have some more work to get done. Ditch the girl in your room and do yourself a favor.”

 

Sherlock began to shut the door, but Seb held out his hand and stopped it. “Still try to keep it down? I love that she’s playing a game like this. You’ve only got a short while to get through all of the girls at uni and I intend to get through as many as I can.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I wish you the best of luck on your endeavors then. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish fixing the mess my movers made.” He shut the door as forcefully as he could in Seb’s face and continued reorganizing his things, muttering about the stupidity of his neighbor as well in addition to the stupidity of the movers.

 

Not long after Seb left, Sherlock heard some frankly filthy sounds coming from the room to his left. He rolled his eyes and threw things around a bit harder to drown out the noises.

 

* * *

  

The next afternoon, there was another knock at Sherlock’s door. He did his very best to ignore it as he was conducting an experiment with sheep’s eyes that he had somehow convinced Mycroft to let him take with him.

 

The knocking persisted for several more minutes, and eventually  Sherlock couldn’t ignore it any longer. He sighed dramatically, removed his safety goggles, and meticulously placed his lab equipment in their proper places on his desk.

 

“Yes,” he sighed when he opened the door. Seeing the horsey face of Sebastian Wilkes smiling back at him, he groaned, “Oh, _you_ again.”

 

Seb chuckled. “What a way to greet your only friend at uni, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock gripped the doorknob a bit tighter. “What do you want, Sebastian?”

 

Shrugging, Seb said, “I fancy a stroll outside and I want you to come with me.”

 

“No.”

 

Seb was clearly not expecting that answer, but he covered his surprise at finding someone who didn’t want to spend their time following around after him like a puppy by chuckling and saying, “You like jokes, don’t you Sherlock Holmes? Come on, I want to see this trick you do in action and I think getting out around other people would be the best way to test it out.”

“ _It isn’t a trick_ ,” Sherlock hissed.

 

“Fine, fine.” Seb waved his hand nonchalantly as if he was trying to fetch something out of the sky. “How about we call it your, oh, I don’t know, your ability? Yes, your ability. I want to see it in action.”

 

“Why?”

 

Seb shrugged again. “I don’t know. It intrigues me. I can’t imagine hearing the muffled voices of people on our hall and being able to figure out which one of them was shagging the girl in the room under yours, and a part of me thinks that you were just lurking around their rooms and watched for who came out of her room and where he went afterwards.”

 

Sherlock nearly said something about actually watching people to see where they had been wasn’t cheating and that it helped him make some deductions because he was simply being more observant than everyone else, but Sebastian clearly thought he was odd enough without the implication that he might be some pervert who was creeping about to find out who was sleeping with whom.

 

When Sherlock didn’t move and continued to stare widely at Seb with those slightly unnerving eyes, Sebastian said, “Come on, you can’t spend all of uni holed up in your room. You don’t want to be that freak with no friends who can tell you who you’re shagging. Come on, chap!”

 

He knew that Seb didn’t actually want to be friends with him. Sherlock was sure that Seb was just taking advantage of the fact that he had been fortunate enough to learn about what Sherlock was able to do before anyone else at school had.

 

He didn’t want to follow Seb. In reality, his words hurt Sherlock deeply and he felt that old familiar itch to carve into himself bubbling back up again. Thinking of how disappointed Mycroft would be, he pushed it back for later analysis and said, “I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

 

Seb’s face lit up. “Splendid! I’ll be waiting!”

 

Sherlock shut the door in his face and turned to his eyeball experiment. As much as he wanted to ignore Seb and go back to it, he knew he needed to try to be social so he wasn’t as much of an outcast at uni as he was at the rest of his schools. It was also what Mycroft would have wanted him to do. At that, he carefully packed the experiment up and properly stored it so he could go back to it later on. He thoroughly washed his hands, aware that he smelled slightly of eyeballs and formaldehyde, then opened his windows wide because if he smelled like that, his room must reek.

 

Four minutes and forty-three seconds later, Sherlock emerged from his room. Seb was leaning against the wall across from his door, chatting to a blonde girl ( _has herpes, can smell the ointment she is using to ease the burn the sores are making her feel on her hands from five feet away_ ) about something completely inane, with one eye trained on Sherlock’s door. As soon as Sherlock was out, he stood up straight and said, “Holmes, this is Charlotte. She’s from Essex. This is my friend Sherlock Holmes.”

 

If Sherlock had been anyone else, he would have startled at the declaration that Seb was his friend. Nobody had ever said that about him, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.

 

“Pleased to meet you,” Charlotte drawled, giving him a delicate air kiss on either cheek. Sherlock returned them halfheartedly, keeping eye contact with Seb the whole time.

 

“Charlotte, it has been lovely chatting with you, but I’m afraid that Holmes and I here have had fairly long standing plans and we really must be going. Would you be keen to stop by my room around eleven tonight for another chat? I live right there,” he pointed to his door, “Next to my friend Holmes here.”

 

Charlotte kissed Seb a bit more soundly on his cheeks than she had with Sherlock. “Of course. I’ll see you at eleven.” Then, addressing Sherlock, she said, “It was lovely to meet you.” With a toss of her hair, she flounced off down the hall towards the staircase, swinging her hips tantalizingly the whole way. Seb didn’t rip his eyes off of her until the door to the stairs was well shut.

 

“Oof,” he grunted. “She was rather fit, wasn’t she?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “I suppose so. Shall we walk?”

 

Seb led him outside. Once they were out, he asked, “What did you mean, you ‘suppose’ she’s fit? She’s bloody gorgeous!”

 

“I told you yesterday, I don’t see the point in romantic relationships. They’re time consuming and emotionally messy-”

 

“I don’t plan on having any type of _relationship_ with her,” Seb scoffed, interrupting. Sherlock hated when people did that with moronic facts. “I plan to have what I assume will be rather filthy fuck or two with her and then forget her name once we’re done.”

 

“Whether you’re only planning on a quick rendezvous or a relationship where you’re significantly emotionally invested, it is a distraction that I don’t care for, nor do I have time for.”

 

Seb was silent for a few seconds, clearly mulling it over in his miniscule brain. “So I’m assuming you’re a virgin, then?”

 

“Does it matter?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Of course it does,” Seb scoffed. “I’ll let you have Charlotte. I bet she’s absolutely filthy.”

 

“Charlotte has herpes,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

 

Seb paused, standing perfectly still. “How could you know that?”

 

“Smelled the ointment,” Sherlock muttered.

 

Seb gaped at him for a moment (he seemed rather good at that, Sherlock noted), and then shook his head and resumed walking. “That’s fucking unbelievable! What freakish qualities do you have that let your nose smell something like that? God, is anyone safe from you?”

 

Sherlock blanched. “I think I’ll be returning to my room now. Enjoy your walk.” He turned and brusquely walked back towards their dormitory.

 

“Holmes,” Seb called. When Sherlock ignored his calls, he jogged up to him. “What is that matter with you? You’re acting like a child.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “Any _child_ should know that what you said right then was rude. Now if you don’t mind, I have a number of rather important things to do involving a cow’s eye. Have a pleasant day.”

 

Seb stood dumbly in one spot and watched Sherlock go. Sherlock didn’t look back the entire way back to his room. Once he was locked inside, he set about resterilizing his equipment. He paused when he got to the scalpel.

 

It was sharp and shiny and his skin positively itched for it. It had been so long, and he had been so good. There must be a way that he could do it once and then be done.

 

Shaking his head, he raced to his cooler and pulled out the eyes. He made a long, sharp, deep incision in one just to satisfy his urge. It worked nearly as well as cutting his into own skin.

 

Breathing deeply, Sherlock continued his experiment and did everything he could to ignore what he was currently holding. Beside him, in the room to the right, he could hear the filthy moans of a girl being brought to the edge of orgasm and back again, who was panting, “Seb you _tease._ ”

 

Sherlock reached for the military grade earplugs that Mycroft had given him and blocked them out. It was going to be a long year.

 

* * *

 

 

“That’s how Sebastian and I met,” Sherlock said after a few moments of silence as John drank the information in. John now had his head resting on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock was sitting upright against the headboard still, and he had wrapped his arms around John, gently running his hands up and down John’s bare back. John’s thumb was making small movements over his hipbone (Sherlock was filing away how lovely that simple movement felt for later).

 

“That’s awful, Sherlock, but-” John stopped, and Sherlock could feel him biting his lip.

 

“What?”

 

“He shouldn’t have said those things, but that isn’t the reason to hold a decade-long grudge against someone,” John remarked.

 

“You must be awfully sleepy. I said that’s how we _met._ You haven’t heard the reason I hate Sebastian Wilkes so much yet.” John hummed and snuggled further into Sherlock’s chest, wrapping his arms tighter around him. “John, could we perhaps continue this in the morning? I would rather be a bit more rested when I go on, and it isn’t the easiest thing to talk about. I would much rather break it into two parts than keep going all in one night.”

 

“That’s fine,” John sighed sleepily. He hoisted himself up and gave Sherlock room to make himself comfortable before draping himself over his boyfriend again.

 

Sherlock pressed John tightly to him. “After hearing all of this, how could you still possibly want to be here?” he whispered. “How can you even stand to look at me?”

 

John’s eyes snapped open. “What do you mean?”

 

“How are you not disgusted with me?”

 

“There’s nothing for me to be disgusted with, you colossal idiot,” John sighed, tucking a curl behind Sherlock’s ear. “What makes you think I would be disgusted?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. “I couldn’t control it.”

 

“Your brain?” John clarified.

 

“Yes,” he sighed.

 

“The way I see it, your brain was something that you needed to _learn_ to control because not everyone can understand or accept just how lovely it is. When you were learning that, you were surrounded by people who weren’t able to see that, or perhaps they could and they were jealous, but they  took it out on you and that’s just wrong, Sherlock. There is nothing wrong about you or the way you are. It’s the people who want to make you dimmer that are wrong in this situation.”

 

Sherlock squeezed John more tightly to him. “You are so wonderful, John Watson.” He paused for a few beats and said, “I’m sorry that I’m having trouble with sex.”

 

John kissed Sherlock’s clavicle. “We’ll keep working on it. But if we don’t get there, I’ll be more than happy to spend the rest of my days only getting action with my left hand. I hope you aren’t going to consider that cheating.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. “Only if I can watch.”

 

John smiled into his chest. “Of course. Now shut up, you noisy bugger. I’m exhausted.”

 

“Then sleep,” Sherlock whispered, kissing John’s hair and pulling him tighter. Sherlock stayed awake until he heard the soft, even breaths that indicated John was finally asleep, and only then did he allow himself to nod off as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading! Reviews, kudos, and general love are always appreciated, as well as constructive criticism. xoxoxo


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday again, duckies!
> 
> If you could see the note at the end after you're done reading, I'm looking for some advice and I would love to have y'all's input on it.

Sherlock awoke the next morning to a cry of pain. Within a few seconds, he observed that the weather had changed drastically during the night. Such a change would surely upset John’s shoulder. Sure enough, when Sherlock opened his eyes, he saw John clutching his shoulder and his face was screwed up in pain.

 

He stood and strode over to the bathroom. Once inside, Sherlock turned on the tap in the bathtub and let the water run over his fingers until it came close to scalding him. Satisfied, he plugged the drain and went back into the bedroom.

 

John looked up at him, clearly feeling absolutely pathetic. Sherlock kissed his temple and said, “I should have watched the weather more closely. I had no idea a cold front was coming in. I’m so sorry.”

 

John let out a sound that was nearly a whimper, but if he ever brought it up Sherlock would vehemently deny that he had heard it like that. “Stay with me, please? It isn’t as bad when you’re here.”

 

“I’ve started running a bath. We need to warm the scar tissue up as much as possible. Can you get up on your own, or would you like some help so you don’t strain it more?”

 

“Help, please,” John sighed, allowing Sherlock to take him gently by his sides and move him so he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He took off John’s boxers so he wouldn’t have to deal with them while he was standing up in the bathroom, and then moved back to allow John to stand and begin to move.

 

Once they were in the bathroom, Sherlock turned off the water and helped John into the tub. He then removed his own pants and sat gently behind John. As John sat back, he let out a groan of relief, already feeling better because of the heat of the water. He grabbed Sherlock’s hands, which he had wrapped around John’s waist, and squeezed them. Their hands remained twined together, but stretched out along their legs so John didn’t have to bend the muscles in his aching shoulder. They sat there silently and not moving at all for several minutes until Sherlock could feel the tension gradually begin to leave John’s body.

 

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock asked, “Would you like me to keep talking about what we were discussing last night? It may keep your mind off things.”

 

“That would be nice,” John sighed. He leaned his head back so it was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder and let the words distract him from the pain.

 

* * *

  

Sherlock avoided Sebastian for as long as he could. Unfortunately, living in the next room made that more difficult than he would’ve liked. He was thanked for the fact that Seb was studying business and that he was studying chemistry. He managed to avoid him for ten days by listening to the sounds coming out of his room and when his door opened and closed. What he couldn’t control was where Seb went while he was out.

 

Sherlock walking home late one Friday night from the library when he heard a group of five incredibly rowdy, and trunk boys coming up behind him. As he was rolling his eyes, thinking about how moronic everyone his age was, he heard a voice slur, “Sherlock!”

 

He was suddenly thankful for the years he spent training himself not to react to it other people were saying or doing and he continued walking towards his room. He could hear someone behind him running at a very unsteady pace, and soon no other than Sebastian Wilkes was walking next to him.

 

“Hello chap,” Sebastian said unsteadily, clapping his hand on Sherlock shoulder. Sherlock buckled that under his weight, and Sebastian was using him more to hold him up rather than just showing a friendly gesture. “Where’ve you been for these last few weeks?”

 

“Busy,” he replied, keeping his tone curt and his voice clipped.

 

“Naaaaaaah,” Seb laughed, shaking Sherlock’s shoulder. “You were embarrassed.”

 

“Rather astute observation, Sebastian. Good night.”

 

“Wait wait wait wait _wait_ ,” Seb slurred. “Show the lads here what you can do. I’ve been telling them all about you and they want to see your trick.”

 

“ _It isn’t a trick_ ,” Sherlock hissed dangerously.

 

“Fine, fine,” Seb conceded with a halfhearted flap of his hand. “Your thing, then. Lads!” Seb called over Sherlock’s shoulder, stumbling a bit with the change in direction. “This is they bloke I’ve been telling you all about! They guy with the trick! No, sorry, he doesn’t like that word. The guy with the thing!”

 

The four other drunk boys stumbled up to them, leaning on each other for support. It wasn’t doing them much good.

 

“This is the one who told me about Charlotte and her little issue,” Seb grinned. Sherlock noted that he looked slightly like a wolf when he did this. Addressing Sherlock this time, he said, “I got around the herpes issue, so you know. Gave her a nice hard fuck through the back door, if you know what I mean.”

 

Sherlock grimaced.

 

“Show the lads what you can do, Sherlock,” Seb whined.

 

“I’m not your plaything, Seb. I don’t exist merely for your entertainment,” Sherlock growled.

 

“Tell me something I did tonight,” one of the boys asked. “Come on, I think Seb here is full of shit.” The other boys voiced their assent and waited eagerly to hear what Sherlock had to say.

 

Sherlock sighed, “If you insist.” He scanned the boy quickly and began to prattle off his deductions. “You had a combination of pints and shots. There are crumbs from chips that you ate while you were at the bar which sobered you up a bit, but not much. Based on your weight and height and factoring in the food, I would say you had the equivalent of eleven drinks tonight. You received oral sex in a bathroom. Your shirt is rather poorly tucked and you forgot to do up your zipper. There is a small splatter on your trouser cuffs that could only be semen, and based on the angle it landed at, it could only be yours. On top of that, you got the girls number and put her into your phone as ‘Bathroom Bitch,’ which I know because I can see your phone in your hand and the texts that are coming in. She’s rather horny because you left her desperate and wanting, only letting her satisfy you. She wants you to go to her room so you can fix it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I would like to be getting back to my room now.”

 

The boy gaped at him like a fish. “That’s bloody insane, that is! Blimey, Seb, I thought you were making this bastard up!”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m glad I can be such a source of amusement for all of you. Good night.”

 

“Where are you going, you moron? We all live in the same building. No point in separating now,” Seb sighed, shaking his head as if Sherlock had gone from the most intelligent person he had ever met to one of the stupidest. “Come on.”

 

Sherlock reluctantly set off with the group of them, except for the boy who he had just subjected to his deductions. He was eagerly heading back in the opposite direction to see the girl that he had abandoned in his haste to get off earlier. The rest of the boys in the group were clamoring for Sherlock to tell them what they had done that evening, although most of them were too far gone to actually understand what he was saying and to do anything other than gape and say something about how absolutely freakish Sherlock’s abilities were. Sherlock stiffened with every word they said, but thankfully they were too drunk to actually notice what it was doing to him. Only Seb, who had watched it happen while he was sober, picked up on some of what Sherlock was feeling, and Sherlock could have sworn that he saw an incredibly evil grin crossing his face, as if he was realizing that Sherlock could do something that would be incredibly to his advantage. Sherlock shuddered. He didn’t want to think about it.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, there was a knock at Sherlock’s door a bit before noon. He had already been up studying for nearly six hours and was in need of a break, but he was certain who was on the other side of the door and he didn’t want to face that.

 

The knocking continued and there was a yell of, “Holmes! Open up!”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing. He wished that Seb would get the message that he didn’t want anything to do with him and would leave him alone soon. Reluctantly, he went to the door and opened it, knowing that the only way to get Seb to stop was to answer him.

 

“What is it, Sebastian?”

 

Seb looked utterly hungover and like he wanted to run himself through a washing machine. He sighed and demanded, “Come to brunch with me. I need eggs and I would rather have company.”

 

“Why don’t you call one of the girls you’ve brought over nearly every night since we got here and dine with them? I’m sure they would jump at the chance, unless you were that bad of a lover that they want nothing to do with you anymore.”

 

“I would say something snappish, but I feel like I will die if I don’t get an omelet and some carbs into me in the next five minutes. Besides, it isn’t like you have anything better to do,” Seb glared.

 

That definitely stung. Sherlock slumped internally, as if he was a marionette and someone had cut away one of his strings. Outwardly, he did nothing to indicate that Seb’s words had gotten to him. To reinforce this, he sighed, “Fine. I shall go with you this once. Don’t try to make a habit of this, Sebastian.”

 

“Why not?” Seb asked petulantly.

 

“I don’t particularly like you, and I would rather limit the number of interactions that we have to have with each other,” Sherlock said bluntly.

 

Seb let out a bark that was supposed to sound like a laugh. “I hope you know that I don’t particularly like you either Holmes, but unlike the rest of the tossers here, I’m willing to spend time with you because I know that nobody else here would even think about talking to a freak like you. So here’s what I’m going to propose: you and I stick together. I pretend to be your friend so you have some sort of social interaction and you seem like less of a freak.”

 

“That sounds rather tedious for both of us,” Sherlock scoffed. “What a brilliant plan. You must be a genius to come up with something like that.”

 

“Shut the fuck up and let me finish before the light and your irritating voice become too much for me to stomach. I’ll make you seem like less of an undesirable wanker, and in return, you’ll tell me things about other people that you wouldn’t normally tell others.”

 

“Contrary to what you apparently believe, I can’t just turn it on and off like a tap, Sebastian. I can’t help what I see, and if I happen to say what I see out loud, I wouldn’t care.”

 

Seb stopped and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder so they were facing each other. “Face it, Sherlock Holmes: _you need me_. You need me, and you won’t admit it. You need someone to pretend to be your friend, because you need someone to protect you. I may not be able to see things the way you see them, but I can tell you that you’re just the sort of bloke whose life I would make hell at boarding school.”

 

“Why don’t you just make mine hell and get it over with,” Sherlock sighed. “You’re being rather boring.”

 

“I’m giving you the option because you have something that I can use, and none of those fucking pansies had anything that was remotely useful to me. You give me information about others that you don’t give to anyone else and I’ll pretend to be your friend. Who knows; maybe I’ll introduce you to someone stupid enough to actually want to spend time with you.”

 

They continued walking in silence, save Seb’s gurgling stomach. Sherlock took some pleasure in the fact that it was a rare sunny day and that Seb didn’t have sunglasses. He looked absolutely miserable.

 

“What would you want me to tell you?” Sherlock asked, doing his best to keep the timbre of his voice the same but raise the decibel level by a few points to make Seb’s face screw up in agony.

 

“Not so fucking loud, you twat. I want you to tell me about people like Charlotte. I want to know the backstory of the people who I’m about to fuck, the people I’m about to drink with, the people in my classes, my professors, anyone I may actually want to be friends with, really anyone. I want to know the dirt, and I want to know if they have a weak point that I can use to manipulate them so I can get what I want from this place.”

 

“You sound like a spoiled child when you talk like that. It suits you.”

 

“I’ll tell you something that isn’t a secret, Holmes. I am a spoiled child. I’m a brat who knows how to use people to get what he wants, which is why I’ll be running a company a few years after we graduate and you’ll probably be starving in a lab somewhere running experiments that don’t matter to anyone. If you do your job right, then maybe there will be something for you in the end that will be worth your while.”

 

Sherlock paused for a second, and then laughed. “You can’t possibly think that I would give in to such feeble threats. I’ve spent my whole life friendless, and I never intended to make any while I was here because they’re so tedious.”

 

“Let me make this perfectly clear, Sherlock Holmes,” Seb seethed, not appreciating the volume of the laugh as much as he didn’t appreciate the fact that he was being laughed at. “I will make your life hell for you if you don’t do as I say. I don’t just mean that you won’t have any friends. I mean that things will be so bad for you here that you’ll end up transferring or dropping out because you can’t stand it.”

 

Sherlock paused, mulling this threat over. He studied Seb, and every sign pointed to him telling the truth. He had done this to others in the past; Sherlock could read that from his face. He was no stranger to doing this, and he would definitely make things difficult for Sherlock if he wasn’t careful. Sherlock hadn’t expected to make friends at university, but he had hoped that he could pass through unnoticed, making it more difficult for people to make things unbearable for him yet again. Finally, he let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding and said, “Fine. If you are going to make things difficult for me either way, I should choose the method that I at least have some control over.”

 

Seb smiled that awful, wolfish grin of his that Sherlock had come to hate so much in the short time he had had the displeasure of knowing Sebastian Wilkes. He shuddered internally at the image. “Splendid,” Seb sneered. He stuck out his hand. “To a long, prosperous friendship.”

 

After an eternity, Sherlock reached out and took Seb’s hand. As he shook it, Sherlock had a deep, gnawing feeling eating away at the pit of his stomach. He tried to squash it, knowing it was an emotion that was trying to make itself known, but he felt a ripple of fear go through him. As he shook hands with Seb, he had a distinct feeling that he was making a pact with the Devil.

 

Once the handshake was over, Seb smiled an incredibly fake smile at Sherlock and said, “Now, if I don’t get some food in me now I’m likely to vomit all over you. Let’s go, _friend_.” He managed to muster up what sounded like all of the animosity in his body with that final word. Sherlock jerked his head and began walking towards the dining hall again.

 

Despite their new pact of forced friendship, neither of them tried to give the appearance of caring about the other at brunch, and they dined in complete silence. Their only interaction with each other from the time they reached the dining hall to when they went into their separate rooms were looks of complete hatred towards each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had an interesting guest review on ff.net (I cross post everything) and I would really appreciate it if y'all took the time to read it and give me a little advice. It was from someone who was only identified at "Confused":
> 
> "I'm Ace.  
> Do 9 year olds really have sexual feelings towards others?
> 
> Damn... I had an innocent childhood.
> 
> I didn't think that sort of thing kicked in until puberty."
> 
> So, here's a little secret about me: I'm asexual. I have had a lot of sex because early on in college in my brain that was just something I have to do to fit in at school and because I thought that was the norm. That being said, I've never felt a flicker of sexual attraction to anyone, and I really don't enjoy sex. Getting to the real point of this: I've never actually had a "crush" on anyone, and I was wondering if I had gotten the part about Percival right. Obviously you don't have to answer this in detail if you don't want to, but do y'all think that this is something that I got right? I'm relying on what people have told me about their personal experiences and some things I've read. If I get an overwhelming response of "no, you properly fucked this up" then I would love the opportunity to change it so it is more accurate based on what a sexual person would experience at that age.
> 
> Thanks for helping me out! As always, reviews, kudos, constructive criticism, and general love are always appreciated! xoxoxo


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wednesday again, duckies! I'm done flouncing around in the Sandias and am busy eating my weight in Hatch green chile before school starts up again. God bless Albuquerque.

At first, Sherlock dragged his feet. When Seb asked him questions about people, he did what he could to give the shortest and least revealing answers that he possibly could. He was puzzled by this. In the past, he hadn’t held back when it came to his deductions. Now that he was being coerced into revealing secrets for someone like Sebastian, he hated his abilities more and more.

 

Seb could tell that Sherlock was holding back, and he was not happy about it. Ever one for subterfuge, he used his knowledge about Charlotte and her herpes to make her utterly miserable.

 

It happened a little over a month after Seb had suggested the agreement he and Sherlock had. One morning, the entire school had woken up to an email from the administration, warning the student body of a possible outbreak of herpes on campus and to be sure that they were having protected sex.

 

It would have evaded his notice if the email hadn’t mentioned Charlotte by name. The email said that there had been reports of her having unprotected sex with others and that those individuals she had been with should seek screening for venereal diseases immediately.

 

Of course, the administration was in an uproar. It was clear from the first that they had been hacked, and an email had been sent quickly afterwards apologizing and warning the students about a potential hacker on campus, and to be wise about what they used the internet for. At this point, it didn’t matter. The damage to Charlotte was already done. Everyone knew that she had herpes, and the influx of students going to get tested at the infirmary confirmed that yes, she did have it and she had indeed had unprotected sex with a staggering amount of her fellow students in the month and a half that she had been at school. Although Charlotte didn’t leave, she was a pariah. Sherlock nearly felt bad for her.

 

After things had quieted down a bit, Seb got Sherlock alone for a moment.

 

“Awful what happened to Charlotte, isn’t it?” Seb asked innocently.

 

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “She did have it coming.”

 

After a pause, Seb let out a harsh bark of a laugh. “You don’t actually think that.”

 

“What makes you think that?” Sherlock asked. Truthfully, he didn’t think that, but he was hoping that if he seemed more heartless to Seb, he would be left alone and wouldn’t be stuck in this predicament.

 

“I just know you. You may be a bastard, but you aren’t completely heartless,” Seb shrugged.

 

They walked in silence for another moment, until Sherlock said, “I assume that was a warning to me?”

 

“Bright thing, you are,” Seb shot back, patronizing him.

 

“You don’t like that I have been holding back on you, and you wanted me to know what you could do if you really wanted to,” Sherlock said.

 

“You must be some sort of genius,” Seb scoffed. They continued in silence for yet another minute, until Seb said, “I will not be trifled with, Sherlock. You agreed to these terms-”

 

“I believe the more accurate interpretation would be that you coerced me into whatever this moronic arrangement we have is. In fact, I don’t even know what you could possibly have on me that could make things difficult for me other than ‘Sherlock Holmes is an ice cold prick’ which is not a new idea.”

 

“I don’t _need_ anything, Sherlock,” Seb growled dangerously. “I just need to make people despise you enough that you can’t stand it anymore. You will help me, or so help me God, I will make you wish you were dead.”

 

Sherlock crumbled internally. “Fine,” he said icily. “I will no longer hold back. You will get everything you want, Sebastian.”

 

“That had better be the case.”

 

As they entered their building and climbed the stairs, Sherlock asked, “What did you do to the person who sent the email?”

 

Seb laughed cruelly. “He was one of those stupid computer science geeks. You know the type- the ones who are ridiculously horny and can’t get a girl so they end up wanking for hours on end and never shower so even mortals can smell it on them. They’re never difficult to break. Depression and the fear of being alone for the rest of your life will make one exceedingly malleable. Good night, Sherlock.”

 

Seb retreated to his room and Sherlock to his. Once inside, Sherlock wasted no time reaching for a scalpel (disinfected after his last experiment) and digging it into his forearm.

  

* * *

 

 

John was silent, but Sherlock could feel him swallowing. To distract himself from his lover’s obvious discomfort, Sherlock reached over him and drained the tub, only to refill it with hotter water.

 

“I’m going to kill him,” John said softly once Sherlock had shut the water off.

 

“That would be far too kind, John,” Sherlock sighed, pressing a kiss onto John’s neck. “We should let him suffer his whole life thinking of the things he’s done before he dies.”

 

“I can’t hear anymore right now, Sherlock. I’m sorry, but I can’t. I’m in so much pain as it is, and God, all I want to do is cry right now and I’m not even the one who he harmed.” John’s voice was thick with emotion, and he squeezed Sherlock’s hands tighter.

 

“That’s fine, John. I’m sorry I’ve upset you,” Sherlock said.

 

John shook his head. “There is nothing for you to be sorry about. If anything, I should be sorry for not being able to hear about this. Any day but today, please.”

 

Sherlock leaned further back and squeezed John close. “Of course.”

 

Less than an hour later, Sherlock received an email from Seb.

 

_Been called out of the country again, chap. Urgent business, I’m afraid. You know how it is. We’ll have to postpone the debrief for a few days, possibly a week. I’ll let you know when I’m back and what time works for me. –Seb_

Sherlock snorted. Of course, it always had to be on Seb’s terms. Everything in his world would be about what was convenient for Seb, and never for anyone else around him. Sherlock hated him more than he could possibly say. Nonetheless, he typed back a neutral response.

 

_John and I eagerly await your return. –SH_

He sighed. Even after all of these years, he was still under Seb’s thumb. Pathetic.

 

John was back in bed at this point with a heating pad on his shoulder. He was whimpering softly as Sherlock entered. Sherlock carefully tucked his body behind John’s and kissed his damp hair. John relaxed a bit and Sherlock smiled. He felt more grounded already, and it was glorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter this week, my loves. It was either make the split here or give you a gigantic, monstrous, behemoth chapter and not leave you in suspense for a few more weeks. Sorry I'm not sorry that I'm evil.
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has responded to my question about sexual urges in children. I know that this isn't a scientific sample (oh damn, my scientist is showing), but seeing how I've never experienced so much as a flicker of sexual attraction towards anyone, it was a huge help. Based on what I heard, I will not be changing anything about that part of the story, so you don't need to worry about going back and rereading something.
> 
> Until next week, loves!


	7. Chapter 7

Two days later, John was finally feeling better and the two of them had caught up on sleep from the banker case.

 

“I’m ready to hear the end now,” John said at breakfast that morning. “If that’s alright with you, that is.”

 

“Of course,” he agreed, somewhat surprised at his own willingness to go on. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll skip some of it. There wasn’t really anything other than me assisting Sebastian and my studies.”

 

“That sounds fine.”

 

* * *

 

It was the worst-kept secret at school that Sherlock was being used by Sebastian. It didn’t affect his life in any noticeable way. Most of the school still avoided him. Sebastian was the only one who really spent time with him, as well as some as Sebastian’s closest friends who were afraid of pissing him off. They know that it was Sherlock who had spotted the herpes in Charlotte and they were absolutely terrified about crossing him. They followed Seb’s lead in making fun of Sherlock when he accidentally spat out a few deductions (the morning in the Formal Hall at breakfast where Sherlock accidentally blurted out that one of Seb’s group had just spent his night having a threesome with two other men was especially memorable), but they only did so when Seb began the process.

 

Once, a student named Archie had taken the lead in making fun of Sherlock. Seb played along, but once he and Sherlock were walking back to their rooms, Seb said, “I need you to find me something on Archie by Friday.”

 

“What did he do to upset you?”

 

“Only I’m allowed to say things like that to you, Sherlock,” Seb sighed, as if he were dealing with one of the biggest morons he’d ever encountered.

 

“To be fair, everyone does it,” Sherlock pointed out. “He just started it this time.”

 

“Only I get to start that. That isn’t a privilege they have.”

 

“I’m sorry; I didn’t realize that that people needed your approval to be awful towards me.”

 

“Shut the fuck up, Sherlock. You’ll find me something on him by Friday.”

 

Seb angrily stalked into his bedroom and slammed the door, no doubt to have a hissy fit like the spoiled child he was.

 

Archie was accused of cheating on one of his exams the next Monday. Within two weeks, he had been expelled for violations against the student ethics code, and he was unable to get into a respectable university because of his record.

 

* * *

 

It took nearly the full three years for Seb to turn on Sherlock. It was April of their final year, and Sherlock had been busy working on what would be the first publication of his infamous paper on tobacco ash. He had holed himself up in his room (thankfully a safe distance from Seb now) and the library (a place that Seb hadn’t set foot in during their nearly three years there), and finally completed it after years of time consuming research.

 

He turned it in early and felt on top of the world. Things hadn’t felt this good ever, and Sherlock could finally see a light at the end of the tunnel. He even called Mycroft to say that, and Mycroft sounded so proud of him that Sherlock thought that he was going to burst. He thought that, for the first time in his life, everything was going to be okay.

 

He should have known that it was a mistake to think that.

 

Seb had been slacking on his final paper for his business degree and tracked Sherlock down two days after he had completed his coursework, begging him to do his paper for him.

 

Sherlock refused.

 

“You’re done with yours, though,” Seb whined. “Besides, I’ve been counting on you for the last few weeks and you just fucking disappeared to do your stuff.”

 

“Oh yes, forgive me for not focusing on you, Sebastian, and instead putting effort into my degree. How unpardonably selfish of me,” Sherlock drawled, rolling his eyes.

 

“Come on, Sherlock, this was part of our deal,” Seb begged.

 

“It absolutely wasn’t,” Sherlock snapped. “Besides, I am through with your games, Sebastian. You may think that you have me for the rest of my life, but I am so damn tired of making things easy for you so you can skate your way to the top of some investment company that Daddy has worked for for decades. I’ve played your games for the better part of the last three years. I’m through now. Grow the fuck up and leave me alone.”

 

Seb’s eyes narrowed. “You know what I can do, Sherlock.”

 

“I don’t care. My degree is finished. You can spend the remaining months here struggling through a paper that you’re too stupid to write.”

 

Sherlock turned and walked towards his room. He knew that from that moment on, he would have to be on his guard to avoid whatever Seb was without a doubt planning for him right that second.

 

* * *

 

It only took Seb three days to arrange something.

 

Sherlock came home from class to find a few squad cars outside of his building. He shrugged and thought nothing of it, seeing how no interesting crimes were ever committed on their campus, and it was probably just some spoiled, Seb-like student who had been caught smoking marijuana in their room. Silently, he hoped that there had been a murder.

 

He was shocked to find the door to his room open and officers going in and out of it.

 

“What’s going on?” Sherlock asked.

 

A uniformed officer stepped in front of him and said, “Son, this is a drugs bust. You’re going to have to stand back until we complete our search. I would go ahead and loop around to the back stairwell if you were trying to get to a room on the other end of the hall, because we can’t let anyone in here.”

 

“No, this is my room. I’m sorry, you said a drugs bust?” Sherlock cocked his head, trying to keep his face looking surprised. He knew exactly what was happening here. “I’ve never done drugs. I don’t know why there would be-”

 

“Gotcha!”

 

A triumphant voice was heart from inside, and another officer stuck her head out and said, “Sir, we have at least 50 grams of cocaine here.”

 

The officer that Sherlock had been talking with narrowed his eyes and asked, “You were saying?”

 

Sherlock was silent.

 

“In that case, Sherlock Holmes, I am placing you under arrest for possession of cocaine and with the intent to distribute it.” The officer read him his rights, but Sherlock tuned him out.

 

He absolutely hated Seb in that moment.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft had obviously been his one phone call.

 

It took him less than an hour to storm down the hall with the proper CCTV footage that proved Sherlock’s innocence, yet it didn’t prove Seb’s guilt.

 

Sherlock’s prints were nowhere to be found on the cocaine. The only prints were that of one of the students who ran in the same circle with Seb named Will. Will was arrested, and according to Mycroft he went kicking and screaming about the fact that Seb had made him do it and that they should be arresting him instead.

 

Will did not graduate and spent several years in prison because of Sebastian’s manipulation.

  

* * *

 

 

“Do you see what I can do?” Seb asked from one of the seats in the lobby of Sherlock’s building.

 

Sherlock froze and looked at him with disgust. “You ruined his life. Not that he didn’t deserve it, since he was stupid enough to buy cocaine for you, break into my room, and plant it, and on top of being a pushover he didn’t even think to wear gloves. The fact is that you’ve ruined people’s lives through using me, Seb, and I don’t want to have to put up with it anymore. I’ve done what I came to uni to do. There is nothing stopping me from that now, especially now that there is extra surveillance on both you and me. You won’t be able to do anything like this to me ever again.”

 

Seb laughed. “Oh, Sherlock. You poor, naïve thing. I don’t think that you understand that I can still make things happen to you. Terrible things. You will need to watch your step. I will give you another opportunity to rethink what you said before and come help me so I can graduate.”

 

Sherlock snorted. “You’re on your own, Seb. Good luck with the paper, and have a nice life.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was not the end.

 

Sherlock was jumped one day on his way to the lab by two of Seb’s friends.

 

The two boys that jumped him injected enough cocaine in him to make things quiet for him, and make him crave more.

 

* * *

 

Seb had smiled wolfishly at him the first time he saw him high. It was a week after the attack.

 

Sherlock wanted to vomit. He didn’t quite know if it was the cocaine, or the realization that Seb had won and Sherlock had fallen lower than he could have imagined.

 

Either way, he still ended up vomiting into the bushes before he rushed home to shoot up and slice into his skin again.

 

* * *

  

He wasn’t high for his graduation ceremony, but Mycroft still knew what was happening. He embraced Sherlock as he said, “Congratulations!”

 

As he leaned into the hug, Mycroft whispered, “Please don’t do this, Sherlock. It’s going to destroy you. For my sake, please don’t.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “I won’t,” he said.

 

Mycroft pulled back and looked at him with a troubled expression clouding his eyes. Sherlock hadn’t promised him that he was going to stop this time.

  

* * *

 

 

There are two years that Sherlock remembers very little from.

 

There are snatches of fuzzy memories, and they come in his nightmares. John never asks, but he always rocks him afterwards. Sherlock tries to forget the tingling feeling in the crook of his arm where all of his scars from his track marks are.

 

 

It was the second time that Sherlock had woken up with Mycroft looking as if he had been running through a hurricane, and it was the second time Mycroft had climbed into his bed and cried.

 

“Please, Sherlock,” he begged. “Please, you have to stop this. I can’t sit by and watch you destroy yourself any longer. It’s killing me.”

 

Sherlock breathed as deeply as one could while one was strung out on painkillers and other medications to dilute his blood enough to eliminate to dosage of cocaine that he had injected that had stopped his heart. “I’m so quiet, Mycroft.”

 

“I will get you help with focusing. I’ve met someone through some work my department has been doing with the Met. He’s a Detective Inspector in the homicide division, and he’s fairly bright for someone ordinary. I talked with him about potentially letting you consult for his team and he seemed very open to the idea. He just said that you need to get clean first.”

 

“Homicide,” Sherlock whispered, running his hand through his brother’s thinning hair.

 

“Yes. It would be so good for you. I can’t sit by and watch you do this anymore, Sherlock. I just can’t. Please, let me do what I can to help you.”

 

For the first time in the two years since he had started using regularly, Sherlock smiled an actual, genuine smile, and he said, “I want to get clean Mycroft. Please, I need your help.”

 

* * *

  

“I’m sorry I can’t say more, but I truly remember very little from that time period. I doubt I deleted it, because I will remember things every now and then, but I can’t access the memories.”

 

“That must be frustrating,” John smiled slightly.

 

“It is,” Sherlock admitted. “So. Yes. That’s it. Sebastian.”

 

He sat there, waiting for something. Perhaps he was waiting for John to laugh at him, or to tell him that it was too much for him and that he was going to be leaving. Instead, John reached his hand across the table and lightly grasped Sherlock’s hand.

 

“Thank you for telling me this,” he smiled earnestly. “I know that this couldn’t have been easy for you, but I’m proud of you for sharing, and I appreciate how honest and candid you were with me. It means a lot to me.”

 

“I- of course,” Sherlock sighed, relieved. “Thank you for being so understanding about it.”

 

“What else would you expect me to be?” John asked, his eyes glistening.

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Sebastian is back in town and would like us to come and collect our check. Would you please come with me?”

 

“Of course,” John agreed. “You won’t have to go into this alone, Sherlock. I promise.”

 

Sherlock ducked his head. “I feel like that when I’m with you. Whole. Like my life carries some sort of extra meaning beyond what the work could bring and beyond what I though was possible for me to experience and to feel. Thank you for being there for me.” He shifted uncomfortably throughout his small speech and John chuckled.

 

“Who is this emotional man sat across from me and what have you done with my boyfriend. Relax, you idiot. You don’t need to say things that are going to make your head combust.”

 

Sherlock blushed. “Thank you.”

 

“Anytime. Just don’t do that again. It made me uncomfortable by association.”

 

The two of them spent the rest of their day stretched out on the sofa in a companionable silence. Sherlock had always assumed that the story that he had told John would be something that would remain between him and Mycroft, but he was so mistaken. When he initially started telling it to John, he had thought the story would drain him, but instead he felt as if he had added some extra strength to his relationship with John because John hadn’t judged him and had continued to stay right by his side. It only seemed logical to say it while they were lying on the sofa.

 

“I love you.”

 

John’s head snapped up. “Sherlock-”

 

“You didn’t want to leave after what I told you,” Sherlock said quietly. “No matter what I say or do, you’re going to be here. You’ve made that very clear. You don’t care about my past beyond the fact that your bleeding heart hates that all of these things have happened to me. You stay with me even though I can’t bring myself to be able to have sex and I have the emotional capacity of a toothpick. You don’t care because you accept me for who I am – scars and all. I love you.”

 

John smiled. “I love you, too.”

 

“You do?”

 

John laughed. “Yes, moron. I do.”

 

“Oh. Good,” Sherlock managed.

 

John leaned over and kissed him lightly and then snuggled up into his side. “Yes,” he sighed. “I think that this is very good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's... Monday?
> 
> I'm so sorry, loves. I started classes last week (wait I'm a college senior I have to be an adult soon?!?!?!?!?!) and in the rush of all of the new stuff, I forgot to update last Wednesday.
> 
> I hope that you all enjoyed this chapter and are filled with hate towards Sebastian. As always, reviews and general love are greatly appreciated.
> 
> There will be an epilogue.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue for y'all. The last Wednesday.

Sherlock kept bouncing on the elevator, just like he had bouncing all damn day.

 

“Calm down,” John hissed so none of the people riding in front of them would hear.

 

“I _can’t_ John,” he spat back. “I’m too wound up for this.”

 

The elevator stopped and someone got off. Sherlock breathed a bit easier.

 

“Are you getting claustrophobic?” John asked.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. There are twelve other people in close proximity to us in this elevator. It’s too much right now.” He stopped bouncing and tapped his fingers on the bar he was in front of, clearly impatient to get this encounter over with.

 

Sherlock’s annoyance was clearly rubbing off on the other passengers. Some were turning around and glaring, others sighing in a long-suffering manner that only John was allowed to sigh in, and a few were clearing their throats loudly. Whether this made Sherlock want to be consciously more annoying or it was just winding him up tighter made him bounce a bit more violently and click his teeth together.

 

John leaned forward and punched the button for the next floor. “Let’s go. We’re taking the stairs.”

 

Sherlock followed him out, and John pulled him into the stairwell.

 

“John, I don’t see why this was necessa-” Sherlock began to protest, but was cut off by John’s lips slamming against his. The kiss wasn’t obscene, and anyone in the stairs would think that it was two lovers saying goodbye after lunch rather than one lover trying to ground the other.

 

John pulled away after about fifteen seconds, but kept his grip on Sherlock’s waist tight. “Relax, you moron. I’m right here. Nothing he says or does is going to drive me away.”

 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John. “I hate him so much.”

 

“I know.” John rubbed his back lightly. “But once we get this we’re done with him. We never have to see him again.”

 

Sherlock sighed and some of the tension fell away. John linked their hands and pulled him back out to the area where the elevators were.

 

“I thought we were taking the stairs.”

 

“Up another fifty flights? No, Sherlock, I am no longer Army-fit, and I don’t want to arrive up there all sweaty and disheveled.”

 

They held hands up the elevator and Sherlock was surprised to find that he couldn’t pull his hand away when the doors opened.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“Does this make you uncomfortable?” John asked.

 

“No, but-”

 

“Then don’t let go.”

 

“John-”

 

“Don’t. Let. Go,” John whispered. He then Sherlock to Sebastian’s secretary, and they were ushered into his office.

 

Seb was obviously surprised to see the two of them holding hands, but he covered it up by pulling out his company checkbook and saying, “Thanks for your work. What do I need to do to prevent this from happening again?”

 

“Install locks on your windows, or better yet, seal them off so no one can take a swan dive off of this or any floor,” Sherlock said smugly.

 

Seb’s face fell. “What?”

 

“They climbed up, Sebastian. A group of Chinese smugglers disguised as a circus act climbed up and spray painted that message to van Coon in the office. I would just seal off the windows and your problem will be solved.”

 

Seb scowled as Sherlock continued to subtly tell him what an idiot he was being. When he ripped out the check, Seb said, “You know, if you ever wanted to go back to doing some of the work that you used to do for me and actually get paid this time, I can start you off at a rate of at least that much each week. I could use you around here. I can’t trust anyone.”

 

“What makes you think you’d be able to trust me?” Sherlock asked.

 

“I know what to do to control you, Sherlock Holmes.” Seb turned to address John. “Has he ever told you about his past? The things he did in uni, and the way he fell afterwards. It was almost sad. I would be glad to tell you about it sometime so you can know just who your boyfriend is.”

 

“As a matter of fact, I know all about that,” John said.

 

“The drugs as well? Surely an upstanding citizen such as yourself would object to that. How do know he isn’t still using?”

 

John chuckled and leaned forward onto Seb’s desk. “Watch yourself, Sebastian. I’ve killed men for lesser reasons than harassing my boyfriend.”

 

Seb froze. “I could call security on you.”

 

“You won’t, though,” John said. “We can prove everything that you did to Sherlock while you were at uni was your fault, even though you didn’t get caught. You could go to prison for a very long time for that.”

 

The two of them stared at each other for about twenty seconds until Seb pulled back and looked to Sherlock, handing the check to him.

 

“Have a nice life, Sebastian,” Sherlock said, gently taking John’s hand and leading him out of the office and back to the elevators.

 

Neither of them spoke on the way back to Baker Street, but once they got into the door of 221B, Sherlock pushed John up against the wall and hugged him.

 

“Thank you for standing up for me. No one has ever done that for me before.”

 

John gripped him tighter. “I hope you know that I’m going to continue to stand up for you. You don’t have to worry about that anymore.”

 

“Let’s drop this check off upstairs and then go for dinner,” Sherlock said. “I want to go on a date.”

 

“A date where we track down a potentially dangerous killer?” John asked warily.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “No, one of your boring ones. Dinner, a walk, though I refuse to go to the cinema, John. You can’t make me.”

 

“No cinema,” John laughed. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

 

“Yes, let’s,” Sherlock replied, but he made no moves to leave. John didn’t either, but he did whisper, “I love you,” into Sherlock’s ear.

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He simply buried his face into John’s neck and hugged John tighter. They stood there for a long time just like that until Mrs. Hudson came into the hallway and said, “Oh, boys! Don’t let me interrupt, but try to keep it behind closed doors. You’re going to give me a heart attack one day!”

 

“Sorry Mrs. Hudson,” they both muttered.

 

“It’s alright, loves. It just warms my heart to see you two so happy. I’ll see you later.”

 

John could feel Sherlock grinning into his neck, and he couldn’t help smiling as well. “Come on,” he said to Sherlock. “Let’s go to dinner and show people just how disgustingly happy we are…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! Many thanks to everyone who has read this, and a thousand virtual hugs to those who have given me support through kudos, reviews, and especially that little stretch about sexual attraction.
> 
> A quick note on my stories: I am on hiatus. I'm back at school now, and I'm about to write a bachelor's essay on top of having an 18 hour course load. As much as I would love to keep writing through this, I don't have a whole lot of time. I really don't like publishing stories until I'm done because I like having the freedom to edit them and move stuff around (if it give you any idea, I spent two months writing this in the late spring and early summer because I changed so much). There is the potential for me to publish a totally plotless (read: smut on smut on smut) story at random, lengthy intervals. Let me know if any of y'all would like that. Other than that, updates will be rare, if not nonexistent.
> 
> That being said, I promise to write over the break I have after midterms and my winter break. I will still be reading stories in a limited capacity, so if you have something that you would like me read, don't hesitate to leave a comment so I know to look for it. I love you all very much, and I hope to be in touch again very soon.
> 
> xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ClassyGirlsWearPearls

**Author's Note:**

> Hello doves! Here's a new story for you! I'll update weekly (every Wednesday) so I can have time to tweak the story as I go along and I can mull over the later chapters so I can give you the best story possible. The whole thing is written, but if there is anything you would like to see let me know and I'll see if I can work it in.  
> Triggers will be added, and the rating will go up later. I will add those I as I go along to avoid spoilers.  
> As always, kudos, reviews, and general love are always appreciated!  
> xoxoxoxo


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